


Sanctuary

by BrighteyedJill



Category: The Pretender
Genre: BDSM, Kidnapping, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mind Games, Prostitution, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-17
Updated: 2009-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-22 17:08:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jarod is investigating a string of disappearances at a BDSM brothel when he receives an unexpected visitor who complicates his plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sanctuary

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://eldritchhobbit.livejournal.com/profile)[**eldritchhobbit**](http://eldritchhobbit.livejournal.com/) purchased me for Sweet Charity, and threw some lovely Pretender plot bunnies my way. I ran with this one. Thanks to [](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/profile)[**jaune_chat**](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/) for the once-over and the [](http://ficfinishing.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://ficfinishing.livejournal.com/)**ficfinishing** community for cheerleading.

Jarod winced as he stepped under the hot spray of the shower. The water stung the fresh pink marks on his back. Jarod’s last patron had laid the stripes out in a meticulously ordered pattern. He’d been so engrossed in his recreation, in fact, that he hadn’t been guarding his words. So much the better for Jarod. He’d heard the name Anton Barrows again, for the third time. If Jarod could find the man to go with that name, he’d be one step closer to finding the half-dozen young men who’d disappeared from this establishment.

 

“Hello?”

 

The voice echoed through the shower room, and it took Jarod several seconds to identify it: Mae, his handler.

 

“In here,” Jarod called. He turned off the shower and reached for his towel. He’d never been very attached to personal modesty, having lived most of his life under constant scrutiny, but this place seemed to take pains to maintain the appearance of propriety, so Jarod slung the towel around his hips before Mae stuck her head around the corner.

 

“Oh good,” she said. “You’re clean.” Mae was an anomaly: an employee who’d outlived her prime but stayed on here in an administrative capacity. Her long tenure at the club made her useful to Jarod, as she knew _everyone_. He hadn’t gotten much out of her concerning the disappearances yet, but he hadn’t been at this long. The staff members here were by necessity very discreet, and Jarod knew it would take time to earn their trust.

 

Mae came to stand behind Jarod and gingerly touched her small hand to one of the welts that striped his back. “Are you in pain?”

 

“A little.” He shrugged, then winced when the motion pulled at his damaged skin. He didn’t mind the pain—he’d long ago learned to pretend his pain was happening somewhere else, to someone else—but he certainly didn’t thrive on it the way some of the others here did.

 

“So how was tonight’s client?”

 

“Fine.” Jarod considered for a moment, then decided it would be worth it to see if he could get anything else out of Mae. “Strangest thing… He said something about Barrows.”

 

A sharp look from Mae made Jarod think she might know more than she was letting on. Then her expression slid back into mild indifference, and she patted Jarod carefully on the shoulder. “Did he?” Mae took her hand away, and looked him over appraisingly. “We’ve had a request for you. Are you up for another engagement tonight?”

 

Jarod considered. He never got tired of the novelty of choice. At the Centre, he’d never been asked whether or not he wanted to complete a simulation. He’d had a way out, of course: calling “refuge” when he felt he absolutely couldn’t go on. Still, he found it funny that here, in the role of a prostitute, his fate was _more_ his own.

 

“Maybe,” Jarod said carefully. If a patron had asked for him by name, it might be someone who had information he needed. Or it might be someone who’d taken a fancy to his photograph in the book downstairs. Or someone who’d heard about him from one of the regulars. There was no way to know for sure.

 

“Older guy,” Mae said. “Came in on a friend’s recommendation and asked for you right off. Looks harmless.”

 

“You should know those are usually the kind who aren’t,” Jarod said wearily.

 

Mae shrugged. “If you’re not feeling up to a full session, we can arrange a watch and wank this time. No contact.”

 

Jarod sighed. If the man had come in asking for him, he might know something. Jarod had to at least _check_. “Set it up. But I’d better be getting overtime,” he teased.  
\--

 

Jarod squeezed into clingy leather pants that left little to the imagination and a tight t-shirt that scraped against the fresh welts on his back. If this patron was only going to watch, chances were that Jarod wouldn’t have his clothes on for long anyway.

 

Mae had given him the room number: seventeen. He paused outside the door to gather his thoughts. The patron would already be inside. It shouldn’t take long to determine whether or not the man knew something about the disappearances. If he didn’t, Jarod felt confident in his ability to hurry this encounter along. There was a folder of research waiting for him in his tiny apartment down the street, and he was eager to make notes on what he’d learned from his client tonight.

 

Jarod pushed the door open. Room seventeen was oval-shaped and tastefully decorated in muted browns and creams. A black line stretched across the center of the room, a silent reminder for the patron to stay on his side. Jarod’s half of the room held a long table loaded with supplies he might need and a chaise lounge which would accommodate a variety of positions. The other half of the room was very dim, but Jarod could see the outlines of several comfortable pieces of furniture. In one large armchair, he could make out the shadowy figure of a man—his patron—waiting for him.

 

Jarod stepped in and hit the light switch, which bathed his side of the room in soft, golden light. “Hello.” He came up to the black line and peered into the darkened half of the room. “I’m Jarod.”

 

The man lifted himself out of the chair and stepped forward until the light spilled onto his face. His face was one Jarod knew well, one more familiar to him than his own in many ways: the face of the man who’d held him through childhood nightmares and talked him through teenage angst, who’d been alternately chasing him and assisting him in evading capture for the past two years. Sydney.

 

“Hello Jarod,” Sydney said. “Was I not what you were expecting?” He sounded remarkably calm. Then again, he’d presumably had time to get used to the idea of this encounter.

 

Jarod had no such advantage. His reactions burned through his mind almost faster than he could catalogue them: anger at the intrusion, fear of Sydney’s intentions, relief at seeing his old mentor, humiliation at being seen this way, confusion about his own feelings. “You asked for me by name,” he managed to say. “I thought I might have seen you before.”

 

“No,” Sydney said slowly. His eyes darted up to the ceiling and back. So he had noticed the cameras. Jarod wasn’t surprised: after all, Sydney had been at the Centre longer even than Jarod. “I’ve only heard about your…talent.”

 

“Well then.” The racing kaleidoscope of his emotions had settled on anger for the time being. “What should I call you?” He edged closer to the line. “Daddy?”

 

Sydney flinched, and Jarod was almost sorry he’d said that. Sydney _was_ the closest thing Jarod had to a father. Which, Jarod reminded himself, was why Sydney shouldn’t be here. If there was some dire threat to warn Jarod against, Sydney could have written an e-mail, or picked up the phone. Jarod had a fairly extensive background of experience from which to draw, and he was coming up blank on any scenario which might require Sydney to visit him this way. Sydney should know better.

 

Jarod wasn’t ashamed to be on the pretend—not exactly—but there was something violating about having Sydney show up in his life when he wasn’t expected, as if he had the right. As if Jarod’s life was still one big simulation Sydney was running. The violation was twice as bad this time, because this scenario put Jarod in such a vulnerable position.

 

Jarod didn’t have the luxury of reprimanding Sydney or questioning him, so he’d have to encourage him to deliver his message and leave as quickly as possible. “So what’s your pleasure?” Jarod asked. He spread his arms to indicate the accessories around him.

 

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Sydney said. “A man of your talents. People talk.”

 

Jarod moved to the table at the right of the room, and Sydney matched him step for step, staying just on his side of the line. Jarod seethed silently. He knew his anger bordered on irrational, but he didn’t bother to rein it in. Sydney _had_ to understand that he’d violated Jarod’s trust by coming here, even if he had the best of intentions. Despite the rapport they’d built since Jarod’s escape, Sydney needed to understand there were limits to Jarod’s acceptance.

 

“I bet I can guess your type,” Jarod said darkly. After all, Sydney had taught him most of what he knew about reading people. It was only fitting that he demonstrate how well he’d learned those lessons.

 

But Sydney was pre-occupied with his own game and the coded script he’d worked out. “Some friends of mine are planning to make an appointment. Tomorrow, in fact.”

 

The Centre was on the way. It was almost funny; Jarod thought Miss Parker would fit in well here. Still, he didn’t need Sydney to tell him he was in danger. Jarod was constantly aware of his risk level, and planned accordingly.

 

“You never answered my question,” Jarod prompted coolly. “What should I call you?”

 

“S--.” Not Sydney. “Sir,” he finished.

 

“Sir.” Jarod bowed his head.

 

Silence grew between them. Across the empty space of the room, Jarod could sense Sydney’s growing discomfort. Now that he’d delivered his message, he seemed unsure how to proceed. Jarod’s agile mind supplied all the ways he could turn Sydney’s predicament to his advantage.

 

Jarod ran a hand slowly over the variety of supplies on the table. “Have you ever done anything like this before, sir?”

 

“What exactly do you mean?”

 

“Watching.” Jarod paced along the line down the middle of the room, eying Sydney speculatively. “You seem like you enjoy watching.”

 

Sydney drew up straighter. “A man in my position must do what he must.”

 

“We have that in common. Tell me, sir, what would you like to see?”

 

“I came here to see you.”

 

“Of course you did.” Jarod took one step backwards so he was standing under full light. “And it’s my job to give the customers what they come for.” He held his arms out to his sides and turned around slowly. He knew, objectively, how appealing he looked. Part of this job was to understand how to use his appearance to his advantage, and Jarod excelled at this as much as he did at everything else.

 

Sydney gave no outward sign as to whether or not he was affected by Jarod’s charms, but when he spoke, his voice held a rough edge. “Jarod…”

 

Jarod sank down on the chaise and reclined, letting his legs fall apart. “I think you know what others ask of me. I think you know what they’d have me do. I bet that deep down, you’d enjoy the same thing.”

 

“I hope you know I’m different from most of those who come here.”

 

“Not so different. And I’m the same as anyone else who does this job. I’ve had a lot of practice fulfilling people’s… fantasies.” He plastered on a bitter smile. “Come on, sir. You seem to be used to calling the shots.”

 

Sydney glanced up quickly at the camera in the ceiling, and lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “Why are you asking me to do this?”

 

Jarod ignored Sydney’s request for an explanation. He’d started this little game, coming here, and Jarod had no intention of letting him off the hook that easily. “Oh, you’re shy. Well, most of my customers want to see what they’re getting.” Jarod pulled his shirt up and over his head, stretching languidly. “Do you like what you’ve purchased, sir?”

 

“Jarod.” His name again, a plea and an admonition.

 

“There’s more.” He let one hand play over his chest while the other drifted to the front of his pants, slowly undoing the buttons on the fly one at a time. Sydney kept his eyes locked on Jarod’s face. His body was half turned to the side, as if he’d rather look away entirely but didn’t dare.

 

“It’s only fair you get to see everything, since you made this possible,” Jarod continued. Sydney flinched, but didn’t break eye contact, even when Jarod peeled off his leather pants and dropped them to the floor. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

 

Sydney’s eyes darted to the door, to the table, and to the line that divided the room—anywhere but Jarod’s body—before they came back to fix on Jarod’s face. “How often have you done this?”

 

“You could say I’ve been doing this sort of thing almost my whole life.” At the stricken look on Sydney’s face, he relented a little. “But I haven’t been here long, if that’s what you’re asking.”

 

“They don’t… hurt you here?” His voice was whisper-quiet again, barely audible above the whir of the air conditioning.

 

“Not at all, sir. I get a choice in who I serve, and when. I actually have quite a bit of freedom, compared to some other places I’ve been. And the clientele… Well, sir, I have plenty of experience dealing with what they want.”

 

Sydney swallowed hard. “And what is it they want, Jarod?”

 

“They like to use me, sir. I can be anyone they want me to be. They just say the word, and I’ll perform for them. I can become anything. Some of them like that. I can be someone they’ve always wanted to punish, or someone they’ve always wanted to love.”

 

Jarod reached for the table and grabbed a jar of unscented lube. He turned his attention to getting his finger slick, though he kept watching Sydney out of the corner of his eye as he continued his commentary. “Most of the time, though, they just want me to follow orders. It’s not every day most people get to have another human being obey their every command. But that’s what I’m here for, sir. Anything they want from me, I have to give them. I have to follow orders.”

 

Jarod set aside the jar and slid further down the chaise. “They can tell me to open myself up, like this…” Jarod leaned his head back and pressed two slick fingers into his ass, already stretched from his session earlier. He thought he heard a sharp intake of breath from across the room. “I take anything they want to give me. Do you know what that power feels like, sir? To know that someone won’t say no to you? I bet you do know. It’s intoxicating. Some people get addicted to that power.” He added another finger and drew them lazily in and out, pushing back with his hips in what he knew was a very seductive rhythm. “They like testing my limits, seeing how much I can take. Experimenting with my capabilities. It’s almost like… research, isn’t it, sir?”

 

“Jarod.” Sydney’s plea was weak enough that Jarod was able to ignore it.

 

“It’s for my own good, really.” Jarod reached over to the table again and his hand closed on the nearest toy, a ribbed dildo with a large, bulbous head. He rubbed his lubed fingers quickly over it to get it slick before drawing his knees up to the sides and pressing the dildo inside. The toy was large enough that it hurt a little, despite the prep, but Jarod knew what it looked like: dangerous, destructive. “If I’m capable of this, doesn’t that mean I should do it?” He pushed the toy in as far as it could go, then drew it out until just the large head of the dildo was inside. “Don’t I owe it to the world to exploit my abilities this way? I know I’m good at it. You know I’m good at it. It feels right, sometimes, to do what they tell me.” He sped up his pace and spoke through gritted teeth as he concentrated on fucking himself hard with the dildo. “It feels safe, following orders like a good boy. Even when they push me too hard, I try to obey.”

 

“Wait,” Sydney’s voice was hoarse and dry, but it stopped Jarod immediately. “Don’t… Don’t hurt yourself. Slower. Gently.”

 

Jarod complied. He slid the toy out in one long, smooth stroke, and pressed it back in gradually, letting it slide at just the right angle to make his body tense in pleasure.

 

“It doesn’t have to be…” Sydney took a step closer to the line that divided them. He was looking at Jarod at last, and really seeing him. “You can do whatever you want, Jarod.”

 

“It’s your show, sir. I have to follow your orders,” Jarod said. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

 

“All right,” Sydney said softly. “Close your eyes.” Jarod did so. “I want you to imagine someone you love. Someone safe, who would never hurt you. Imagine that person: their smell, the way their eyes look.”

 

Even with his eyes closed, Jarod could still see Sydney. Even after everything that had happened between them, Jarod still thought of Sydney as _safe_ , as _home_ in many ways. Jarod knew, deep in the essential part of himself where lies and pretending could not reach, that Sydney had not meant to hurt him in coming here.

 

“You can touch yourself, Jarod.” Sydney’s voice drifted to him in the safe place where he pictured himself. As if he were hypnotized, helpless to resist, Jarod’s free hand drifted to his cock, which throbbed against his belly.

 

“I want you to imagine this person giving you pleasure. Not the way you imagine they want it, but the way you want it.”

 

Desire was something Jarod hadn’t had much time for at the Centre. He’d had no privacy, and therefore no time to develop a private life. All his imagining and fantasizing was done in the simulator. Then again, his imagination was excellent, and the image that sprung immediately to mind was detailed: a bed with plush sheets, a man kneeling above him, soft, weathered hands on his skin, the smell of brandy and aftershave he associated with Sydney.

 

His hands moved, working the toy inside his body in tandem with his hand around his erection, and he imagined he could feel strong arms around him, holding him, not possessively, but protectively. Telling him that it was all right to feel something real, to not pretend to be a perfect blank slate. Telling him he was good, not just good at this, but _good_ : desirable, worthy to be loved.

 

Sydney’s voice sounded so close, as if he were lying right next to Jarod. “It’s all right, Jarod.”

 

One more precise slide of his hands in just the right way, and Jarod hips bucked up, his ass clenched around the toy, and as he came he morphed Sydney’s name into a strangled, “Sir.”

 

Jarod’s eyes flew open in time to see Sydney watching him with a mixture of horror and longing, hands clenched at his sides and framing the unattended bulge in his pants.

 

“Jarod…” Sydney took a step back. The tension between them stretched, and Jarod sat up, wanting to speak, wanting to have something to say. Sydney took another step back, and stumbled against the chair. The scrape of wood against the floor broke the connection between them. Sydney turned and hurried for the door without a backwards glance.  
\--

 

All the hot water in the world couldn’t wash away the dirty feeling that plagued Jarod. Sydney had come to him in friendship, to _help_ him, and Jarod had twisted that around to intentionally hurt Sydney. He’d made his point, certainly, but Jarod wondered what the cost had been to the bond between them.

 

The locker room was quiet and deserted by the time Jarod finished getting dressed. It was near dawn, and most of the club’s employees had either headed home for the night or were engaged for the duration of the shift. Jarod had space and quiet to think.

 

If Sydney was here, Miss Parker couldn’t be far behind. Tomorrow, Sydney had said. Jarod might not even have that much time, if Parker suspected that Sydney would try to warn him. Jarod would have to hurry if he wanted to complete his work here. To be safe, he should switch locations. He would stop by his apartment and gather his research. Then he’d find somewhere else to finish this project.

 

Jarod hefted his bag and strode out the staff entrance, which was far enough away from the front to discourage any over-enthusiastic clients. The security guard at the door nodded to Jarod.

 

“Hey Russ,” Jarod called. He made a mental note to look into the club’s employment records concerning security personnel. If he compared time sheets to the dates of the disappearances, he might be able to--.

 

Jarod caught the sound of boots scuffing behind him, but not soon enough. An electrified dart caught him in the shoulder as he turned. As he fell, he saw a shadowy figure holding a tazer. Unconsciousness claimed him before he could put up a fight.  
\--

 

Jarod’s first reaction upon waking was anger. He was furious that Sydney had gone to such lengths to keep him busy while the sweeper team got into position. He’d been naive to expect Sydney not to take advantage of him. Jarod had believed, whether he’d admitted it to himself or not, that Sydney ultimately had his best interests at heart. In the past, Sydney had as much as said that he felt guilty over his part in what had happened to Jarod at the Centre. But that didn’t mean he was on Jarod’s _side_. It had been careless of Jarod to operate under that assumption.

 

Jarod didn’t open his eyes yet; he was careful to maintain the appearance of unconsciousness. He wanted to gather as much information as possible before his Centre handlers realized he was awake. He was lying flat on his back, so he was too exposed to try much, but he’d do what he could. He gently wiggled his fingers and toes, and noted with relief that he seemed to have full control over his limbs. He listened hard for a full minute but heard only the mechanical whir of an air circulating system. If anyone was in the room with him, they were keeping very quiet. He took one deep, slow breath, which told him nothing other than the room was quite cool.

 

As he came to that conclusion, he stumbled on another, more disturbing realization: the cool air in the room was having a more pronounced effect because Jarod was naked. He tried to speculate for a moment why the Centre would take his clothes: perhaps to punish or humiliate him, or to discourage him from an escape attempt. They’d never done such a thing before, but it was possible they were experimenting with new methods.

 

Jarod tried to shift slightly, and felt bonds pull against his wrists and ankles. This was new, too. In general, the Centre preferred coercion to force. They liked to maintain the illusion that those under their power cooperated by choice. Metal handcuffs weren’t their style.

 

For the first time, Jarod entertained the possibility that it was _not_ the Centre who had taken him.

 

Jarod opened his eyes to darkness. Only a bare sliver of light penetrated the room, and that seemed to come from under a closed door about five feet to Jarod’s left. It was impossible to tell the dimensions of the room in this low light, but Jarod thought it must be small. His powerful imagination supplied an image of a holding cell: an amalgamation of Viet Cong torture chambers and the administrative segregation cells at San Quentin Prison and the tuberculosis ward at Ellis Island—images from background materials for a dozen different simulations.

 

Jarod wondered again why the Centre would deviate from past procedure and bring Jarod here—wherever here was—instead of to Blue Cove… Unless this was some new part of the Blue Cove facility that Jarod didn’t know about. But if he wasn’t being held at the Centre, then where was he?

 

A loud, metallic _clank_ sounded from Jarod’s left. The door swung open, admitting two men and a swath of light. The taller of the two men, and the higher ranking, if Jarod was any judge of character, wore a crisply tailored suit far more expensive than anything Jarod had seen worn by the Centre staff, even Mr. Parker. The other man wore a lab coat and carried a clipboard, and he came straight away to Jarod’s bedside—he could see now that he was strapped into an examination table—and placed two fingers at his neck to take his pulse.

 

“Nice to see you’re awake,” the suited man said.

 

“Where--?” Jarod began. His throat was dry and scratchy. He swallowed, though his mouth felt stuffed with cotton. “Where am I?”

 

“Never mind that now.” The man had a hint of some difficult-to-place central European accent; he reminded Jarod vaguely of Sydney. Syndey, who Jarod was starting to doubt had anything to do with this. “You won’t be here long, anyway. The auction is tomorrow.”

 

The man in the lab coat noted something on his clipboard, and then pulled from his pocket a small, hard case containing a disposable syringe.

 

“What is that?” As always, Jarod was analyzing variables, considering possible outcomes, and mapping a course of action. The prospect of escape would be made much more difficult if he were sedated.

 

“Hush.” The man in charge stroked a finger up Jarod’s naked chest.

 

Jarod couldn’t hold back a flinch. He allowed himself to shut down his responses, to imagine that this was happening to someone else. It helped hold back the fear, he’d found, if he catalogued each sensation coldly and impersonally, as he would a stimulus being applied as part of a simulation.

 

The man in the lab coat slid the syringe into Jarod’s neck and pushed the plunger.

 

“There.” The suited man scratched Jarod’s belly. Jarod noted the gesture as one generally used on animals, and started to speculate on what that meant about this man’s estimation of him. “If you cooperate, you’ll find this much easier.”

 

Jarod tried to reply, but his brain felt muzzy.

 

“Forget what you were before. You belong to us now. You _are_ someone else now.”  
\--

 

Jarod awoke feeling groggier than he had before. He dispensed with pretending to remain unconscious, and opened his eyes as soon as he could pry them apart. He was in a cage, a simple chain-link enclosure with a cement floor and a padlock on the gate. In the dim light, he could see that his cage wasn’t the only one. Similar pens stretched in a row down the room as far as he could see from his vantage point on the floor.

 

Jarod sat up to get a better view, and that’s when he noticed the cuffs. His wrists were bound in black leather cuffs, connected by a short chain. They must have put them on while Jarod was out. And that wasn’t all they’d done. When Jarod shifted to test his cuffs, he felt a sharp, unexpected pain shoot up his spine. He couldn’t move his hands around to feel for sure, but another flex of his muscles confirmed what he’d suspected. There was a hard, unyielding toy lodged inside of him.

 

The fact that someone had touched him—handled him so intimately while he was unconscious— made his stomach roil. He fought down stirrings of panic. At the Centre, no one had ever violated him _quite_ like this. Jarod wondered if what the Centre had done was worse: encouraging him to participate, convincing him that he was _helping_ people. At least his current captors made no pretense of caring about his consent.

 

Jarod again swallowed back his panic. Whether he consented to this or not, he still had to consider his options. But the possibilities seemed to be few. He still had no idea where he was, or who was holding him.

 

“Hey.” A whisper drifted into his cell.

 

Jarod snapped his head up to peer across the room through the dim light. Beyond the gate of his own cage, across a wide aisle, was another row of pens. From one of these, a young man, naked and bound with cuffs similar to Jarod’s, was watching him. Jarod edged closer to the boundaries of his cage and squinted across the aisle. The man—little more than a teenager, really—was thin to the point of gauntness. Unruly brown curls hung down in front of soulful eyes that watched Jarod eagerly. There was something familiar about him. “Barrows?” he asked incredulously. “Anton Barrows?”

 

“You know my name?” The boy edged closer to the front of his cell.

 

 

“I came from the club,” Jarod explained. “People talked about your disappearance.” He didn’t see any reason to get into the details of his hunt for Barrows: the police reports, the phone call to his estranged parents, the gentle prying to glean anything he could from the other staff at the club.

 

“People,” Barrows said bitterly. “Those people don’t care if I’m gone. They did this to me.”

 

“What do you mean?” Jarod asked.

 

“I was going to leave… Get out of here, you know?” Barrows jerked a head to indicate their surroundings. “Out of this life. And I guess they didn’t want to let me go.”

 

“How do you know it was them?”

 

Barrows leaned against the front of his cage and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Mae. Russ. They’re all in on it. The damn place exists to draw in people like us. I mean, everyone knows there’s lot of turnover, but I kinda thought that was normal, you know? But if they think they can make more money selling us…” Barrows slumped to the floor of his cage. He turned away, and his voice became thick. “It’s one thing to work at a place like that, but… This is different.”

 

“It’s okay,” Jarod said. He didn’t have any idea how where they were, or how he was going to get them out of here, but he knew he’d figure out something. “It’ll be fine.”

 

“Don’t patronize me. You don’t get it, man.” Barrows hunched his shoulders, sending his cuffs rattling against the metal mesh of his cage. “There’s an auction tomorrow. We’re going to get sold. Like animals. They take you away and no one ever hears from you again. You just disappear. Are you hearing me?”

 

“Yes.” Jarod knew a little something about being abducted. That wasn’t going to happen to him again, and if he had anything to say about it, Anton Barrows was never going to have to experience it, either. “I get it.”

 

“They bring people in here, then they go away on auction day. There’s more of us, too. Who knows where they came from.” He lowered his voice. “We’re not supposed to talk to each other. But I feel like I have to talk, or I’ll go crazy, you know?”

 

“Anton. It’s okay. We’ll figure out a way to get out of here.”

 

“I’ve seen other guys try. Not gonna happen. They’ll hurt you. Not, like, a fun sexy kind of hurt, either. I mean, the kind of hurt that makes you wish you’d never been born. You do not want to mess with these people.”

 

“I’ve dealt with some pretty bad people in my lifetime.”

 

“Yeah. Well. Just… Don’t piss them off okay? I don’t want to make this worse than it already is.”

 

“Alright.”

 

Barrows crawled to the back end of his cage, leaving Jarod in relative privacy to consider his escape plan. He didn’t think he’d be able to get out of this cage, even if he could remove his cuffs, so that meant he’d have to wait until someone came for him. The human element was often the most easily exploitable element of a situation. If nothing else, Sydney must have noticed by now that he was gone.

 

Of course, Sydney had probably expected him to run after the warning he’d brought. But Sydney knew him well enough to know that he wouldn’t leave a job unfinished. And he had to know that Jarod certainly wouldn’t leave a mess behind. The state of Jarod’s apartment alone should be enough to tip him off.

 

He could easily picture Miss Parker and Sydney rummaging through his meager belongings at the tiny apartment he’d left behind. He hadn’t had time to set up for them as he normally would. The red notebook with clippings about the disappearances of several young men, plus copies of documents he’d filched from the club and print-outs of message board posts.

 

They’d also find the fruits of his latest pop-culture obsession: flavored condoms. He’d collected a variety in every flavor he could get his hands on, and he’d been experimenting with natural and artificial flavors to come up with a new concoction, perhaps boysenberry. He would have loved for Miss Parker to have found an array of flavored condoms laid out in precise rows to form a map to the club.

 

But for the first time in a long time, Jarod hadn’t had time to arrange things exactly the way he wanted for their discovery. That meant, however, that they were finding more clues than usual as to Jarod’s interest here. Sydney already knew he worked at the club, although if he wanted to avoid telling Miss Parker he’d kept information from her, he’d have to come to that information some other way. Still, Parker and Sydney had a great deal of experience in tracking Jarod’s movements. They might be able to follow his activities from the club, and perhaps even to here, wherever here was.

 

Jarod shook his head at his own foolishness. He couldn’t believe he was hoping for rescue from The Centre. He sat against the corner of his tiny cell and tried not to pretend, but to plan.  
\--

 

Dawn came sooner than Jarod expected, and brought with it a man with a ring of keys and a belt loaded with tools Jarod didn’t recognize.

“Wakey wakey, Jarod. Time to get you ready for the auction.” He unlocked the door of Jarod’s cage, tossed him a pair of loose fitting cotton pants, and waited expectantly in the aisle.

 

Barrows was already standing in the aisle, his arm held by another trainer.

 

Jarod stood up, pulled on the garment he’d been offered, and placidly walked out of his cell, ignoring the ache in his arms from being cuffed, the soreness in his joints from sitting on a cold floor all night, and the discomfort from the toy still lodged inside of him. The trainer immediately tied a blindfold over his eyes and then led him forward. He could hear Barrows stumbling along behind him.

 

They came out of the long hallway of cells into what seemed, from the level of noise, to be a larger room. They walked for twenty yards or so as conversation swirled around them, and then the trainers led them through another doorway into a quieter space. “Down.” The trainer’s hand pressed down on his shoulder, guiding Jarod to his knees. Jarod heard someone else kneel beside him, and decided it must be Barrows.

 

“Stay,” the trainer told Jarod, and took his hand off Jarod’s arm. Jarod wasn’t fool enough to think he’d been left alone, but he did relax marginally now that he wasn’t being manhandled.

 

“Oh God,” Barrows whispered from beside him. “These are the clients out there. They’re going to be bidding at the auction. There’s gotta be a dozen at least. Jarod… I don’t want to--.”

 

“Shut up,” one of the trainers snapped.

 

There was a jingle of chains, and then Barrows fell silent. Then Jarod’s trainer was back, touching a hand to his arm. “Come on, slave. Some clients want a better look at you.”

 

Jarod ignored him. He didn’t want to resist, exactly, because he didn’t want to put Barrows or anyone else in danger. But playing the dutiful slave wasn’t going to win him any freedom here. So he simply waited.

 

“Slave.” The man’s voice took on a dangerous shade. “Get up.”

 

Jarod had gone through a brief phrase like this at the Centre: refusing to pretend. Flat-out saying no to the roles they wanted him to play. The trouble was that Jarod didn’t really understand who he was outside of his chameleon colors. He liked the fit of some roles better than others, but when he wasn’t pretending, he felt vulnerable. He was a blank slate, cobbling together a shoddy identity from characters he’d been in the past. Even now, Jarod’s instinct to submerge himself into an appropriate identity was difficult to fight.

 

“Come on, slave. If you don’t behave, no one here will want you, and you’ll have to stay here with me for training. You won’t like that, I promise you.”

 

“Jarod,” Barrows hissed. “Do what he says.”

 

Jarod he still didn’t move.

 

“Have it your way,” the trainer snapped.

 

Something cold and metal pressed against Jarod’s neck. Pain seared through him, white-hot and electric. He’d never been hurt on a simulation. He’d pretended to be hurt, tricking his mind into believing some injury, but now, faced with the real thing, Jarod felt the difference. The pain seemed to go on and on, squeezing out his capacity for rational thought, or _any_ thought aside from animal panic.

 

When the pain stopped, Jarod slumped against the floor, disoriented and gasping for breath.

 

“Ready to cooperate?” the man asked.

 

Jarod shook his head. He heard Barrow’s shout of warning too late, and the trainer’s foot caught him in his unprotected stomach. Jarod curled in on himself, cataloguing the physical response to injury—increased heart rate, rapid breathing— even as he tried to shut out the pain. The man lashed out again, his boot landing hard against Jarod’s back, and Jarod bit back a moan of pain. He was in pain, blind, alone, and afraid.

 

“Refuge.” The word dropped from him—visceral, ingrained response to distress—before he remembered it meant nothing here.

 

“Did you say something?” The trainer was close, probably crouched next to him. “Did you want to apologize to master?”

 

Every instinct told him to submit, to pretend to be the man they wanted him to be. He could do it easily. He could be the most perfect slave they’d ever had, if he decided to play that role. But just because he _could_ didn’t mean he had to. Barrows was counting on him to get them out of here.

 

Jarod made no move.

 

“If that’s what you want.” The metal instrument was at his neck again, and the pain sent Jarod trying to scramble away. There was no escape: he was trapped between the wall and the trainer’s cruelty. When the shock finally subsided, he was trembling.

 

“Get up, slave.”

 

Jarod shook his head again and forced himself to draw up on his knees, refusing to cower. He braced himself for more pain, but none came.

 

“Perhaps I can be of some assistance.” A warm hand settled against the back of Jarod’s neck. Instantly, the tension drained from his body. The familiar voice was salvation when he’d had no hope of it. “I’ve handled this type before.” Sydney rested a hand on top of Jarod’s head, above the knot of the blindfold.

 

“Huh,” the trainer snorted. “What are you, magic?”

 

“Just takes a sensitive hand,” Sydney replied. A dull thud reverberated against Jarod’s knees as something heavy hit the floor. Then hands pulled at his blindfold, and Jarod blinked up into Sydney’s worried face. “Alright, Jarod?”

 

Jarod glanced down to see his handler passed out on the floor. Sydney tucked an empty syringe into his pocket. Beside them, Barrows stood frozen, gaping.

 

“We have to move,” Sydney said. He pulled a ring of keys off the unconscious trainer’s belt and unlocked Jarod’s cuffs. “It won’t be long before they come looking for you.”

 

“I know. Come on, Anton.” Jarod gently took the young man by the arm. “We have to get the others.”

 

Jarod took off the way they’d come, leaving Sydney no choice but to follow.  
\--

 

Of all the daring escapes and pulse-pounding chases Jarod and Sydney had survived, this one ranked fairly low in difficulty of execution. None of the trainers had guns, and the prisoners were so used to obeying orders that once they’d reached the holding cells it only took Jarod the space of a few minutes to order them out of their cages and send them on their way. Barrows had given him a grateful hug before scampering out into the dark of night with the others.

 

As he watched them go, Jarod made a mental note to follow up on them later and make sure they all had the means to stay out of harm’s way once this organization discovered that they were gone. Of course, he would figure out a way to shut down their operation entirely once he threw the Centre off his own trail again.

 

“Come on!” Sydney tugged at Jarod’s arm. “Their house security won’t stay away forever. And you’re not exactly inconspicuous.” Sydney shucked off his jacket and handed it to Jarod. “Watch yourself with those bare feet,” Sydney said as Jarod pulled the jacket around himself. “This alley’s full of nasty things.”

 

As Jarod let Sydney lead him away from the building, he marveled at Sydney’s care of him. Even after Jarod had done his best to hurt Sydney at their last encounter, Sydney still treated him as if Jarod were something precious he’d sworn to protect.

 

When they reached the end of the alley, Jarod saw their destination: a standard Centre-issue black SUV. Sydney kept moving, but Jarod broke stride, suddenly suspicious. After a few steps, Sydney noticed his absence and turned back. A concerned, furrowed brow soon reverted to a cool, neutral mask as he realized why Jarod had stopped. “I came back on my own,” Sydney said wearily. “But they’ll be here any minute. Let me at least get you away from here.”

 

Jarod nodded his agreement. Sydney led the way to the SUV, and Jarod jumped into the passenger seat. Sydney pulled them out into the street. As they drove through the first traffic light, four identical SUVs passed them going the opposite direction. Sydney and Jarod both tensed up as they passed by, but the little convoy didn’t turn back. Relieved laughter bubbled up in Jarod, and to his gratification, Sydney laughed too. They sat at the next red light, heaving with the semi-hysterical mirth.

 

A particularly hardy chuckle sent Jarod hissing and wrapping an arm around his stomach, still bare under the loaned jacket

 

“Did they hurt you?” Sydney asked quickly.

 

“Not much.” Jarod said. The kicks the trainer had given him hadn’t exactly been love taps, but he was well enough to move, and well enough to escape a team of Centre sweeper agents if it came to that. At the moment, though, Sydney’s concern seemed genuine. Jarod studied him a moment, taking in Sydney’s clothes—much nicer than his usual garb—his brightly-shined shoes and his expensive watch. “How did you--?” Jarod began.

 

“It wasn’t difficult,” Sydney said with a hint of pride. “They noticed my interest in you at the club, and they told me about the auction. It took very little persuading.” He raised an eyebrow at Jarod. “I assume getting yourself kidnapped wasn’t part of your plan.”

 

“No,” Jarod admitted. “Although it did work out all right in the end.”

 

“Yes.” They drove for another minute in silence. Jarod looked out at the bright lights of the city, stoically ignoring his injuries, and turned over in his mind what Sydney had done for him. Any way he imagined the scenario, it still amounted to significant risk for his friend. “Sydney. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…” Jarod took a calming breath as he tried to settle on an explanation for his behavior. Finally, he said, “I shouldn’t have done that when you came to see me.”

 

“I shouldn’t have gone to see you,” Sydney replied. He kept his eyes on the road. “But I can’t help but worry, Jarod. You put yourself in such danger.”

 

“I’ve been in danger all my life, Sydney. At least as long as we’ve known each other.” Jarod hadn’t meant it as a jab at Sydney’s involvement in his early life, but the man’s flinch revealed how much the reminder stung. “I mean you trained me well. You know what I am. I would have found a way out.”

 

“What if you didn’t?” Sydney’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, and his eyes flicked briefly to Jarod. “There are evils that even your genius can’t overcome.”

 

“I guess it’s good that I still have friends in high places. One friend, at least.”

 

Sydney smiled thinly. “The Centre isn’t exactly a high place.”

 

“I don’t belong to the Centre anymore. I never really did.”

 

“I know.”

 

“But I’m still yours, Sydney,” Jarod said softly. Sydney stared at him as the SUV rolled to a stop in traffic, mouth open to speak, but at a loss for anything to say.

 

The walkie talkie on the dashboard crackled to life, and Miss Parker’s voice blared through, “Where are you, Sydney? This place is chaos. We were supposed to rendezvous ten minutes ago. Come in, damnit!”

 

“Guess it’s time to get back.” Sydney pulled over onto a side street and put it in park.

 

“What will you tell her?” Jarod asked.

 

“Probably that you caused all the problems at the auction house and escaped on your own. She’ll believe that.”

 

Jarod reached out to shake Sydney’s hand, but at the last moment his hand drifted up to rest on Sydney’s shoulder. “Thank you. Really.”

 

“Take care of yourself, Jarod.” Sydney laid his hand over Jarod’s, squeezed once, lightly, and then let go.

 

Jarod got out of the car and watched as Sydney pulled away, headed back to Miss Parker, to his work at the Centre, to the painful solitude of striving to do the right thing while mired in a nest of vipers. Jarod gathered Sydney’s jacket around him like a blanket and set off. He had work to do.


End file.
